


a place in france where time goes back

by crickets



Category: Lost
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-08
Updated: 2009-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets





	a place in france where time goes back

They get off the plane in Los Angeles, and Claire can feel him slipping away already. Like lifting a glass only to find there's no milk, or taking a step when there is none, she reaches for his hand.

(It isn't there.)

\--

Jack helps her find a place outside of the city, someplace that's close, but not close enough to be tempting.

The drive to the house is a long brushstroke of silence, too long, and Claire understands all too well what that means.

"You're going to need a washer and dryer," he tells her on the day she moves in, hands her a blank check. "For anything else," he says, like it's not coming from the same pool of hush-money anyway. Airline's got a reputation to protect, a bottom line to watch out for.

She follows him to the door, grabs his hand. He lets her, stills, but doesn't turn around. She presses her weight into his, stands on tiptoe to kiss the back of his neck, her fingers searching for more.

"I have to go, Claire."

She burns the check after he's gone.

\--

_Sixty days._

Sixty days without a word, and she could almost fool herself into forgetting, moving on.

She subscribes to magazines, tries new recipes, gets a job at a florist shop to keep busy. _And then he shows up_, tells her to pack some things, says something about an uncle, about always chasing after dead men, kisses her full on the lips. If she is angry, she doesn't say. Though this is not to spare him. (She's not quite sure he deserves her mercy.) But because she understands. Truth is, if he hadn't sent her away, she might have just disappeared on her own, slipped away in the night, left no word.

_He just got to it first._

Can't exactly blame him for that.

She packs what little she needs in a canvas backpack, no more. She hasn't quite gotten the minimalistic lifestyle of the island out of her system. She thinks it's for the best, losing that all-too-human attachment to _things_. It's _people_, now, she wants to hold on to. People who are always either dying or running away.

\--

They're in a dark basement somewhere in rural France going through the life of someone she's never met. (Jack's uncle's life. _Her_ uncle's life.)

Claire hasn't asked about family connections, why Jack never told her Christian had a brother, or why Uncle Felix wasn't stateside. She just follows him from room to room as they separate items into piles and lists, things the family will keep, things they'll sell, things they'll throw away. There are freshly baked crusty rolls in the mornings and they don't sleep in the same bed at night.

One early evening, she finds a cache of vintage dresses tucked away in one of the closets. She tries one on, the perfect fit, and the next day she starts to wear them regularly. They're modest and humble, the soft fabrics falling just below the knee in floral prints and dark colors, blacks, tans, deep reds, and dark blues. If Jack notices, he doesn't mention it.

"I remember this," he says, and Claire is almost startled. She swears it's the first time she's heard his voice in days. (_But no_, she remembers, he'd asked her if she wanted milk in her tea over breakfast, talked about getting started downstairs.)

She goes to where he is, in a low-lit corner of the basement, standing over an old hand crank record player. Jack slides the record he's holding out of the sleeve, places it on the turntable, and begins to crank. Nothing's dusty, except maybe the music, like old Uncle Felix was down here just a few weeks ago, listening to the same record, the same song. Claire smiles, feeling appropriately dressed, like she's just closed her eyes and gone back in time to the thirties or forties.

Jack pulls her close. She stands, her bare feet on top of his, as they dance. The man in the song talks of eyes and lips and belonging, of dreams and all the simple things about love that Jack and Claire know nothing about. But in this moment, it doesn't seem to matter. He bends low, his hands at her waist. She presses her cheek to his. He kisses her shoulder.

And then the song ends, and they resume their places as if the moment never happened.

(And maybe it never did. Maybe it was just a dream.)

\--

That night, Jack finds his way into Claire's bed for the first time since France.

"Something's changed?" Claire half-asks as he hikes up her nightgown, his cool fingers finding the edges of her panties, slipping them down.

Jack kisses her again in answer, whispers, "I'm sorry" a thousand times until she's pressing his boxers over his hips, sliding her heels over his ass.

"Shut up," she tells him, bites at his neck, tasting the salty flesh she finds there. Jack groans, pressing his weight into her, finding the right leverage to gain entry. Claire closes her eyes, the sounds of the song from the record player filling her mind, the feel of Jack moving inside her overwhelming.

His lips against hers, she cries out.

\--

"We should just stay here," she says in Jack's arms that night. "I like it here."

Jack laughs, kisses her jaw. "Well, you can keep the dresses at least," he tells her. "I like those too."

"And the record player," she says.

"And the record player," he agrees.

It's not an answer, and Claire knows they can't possibly stay in that house, but she knows that this is no dream.

_The glass is full._

And for now, that will have to be enough.

_-fin_


End file.
